Part 17 (2/2)

Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank, Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.

Give me the end of the year an' its fun When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done; Bring all the wanderers home to the nest, Let me sit down with the ones I love best, Hear the old voices still ringin' with song, See the old faces unblemished by wrong, See the old table with all of its chairs An I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.

The Boy Soldier

Each evening on my lap there climbs A little boy of three, And with his dimpled, chubby fists He pounds me shamefully.

He gives my beard a vicious tug, He bravely pulls my nose; And then he tussles with my hair And then explores my clothes.

He throws my pencils on the floor My watch is his delight; He never seems to think that I Have any private right.

And though he breaks my good cigars, With all his cunning art, He works a greater ruin, far, Deep down within my heart.

This roguish little tyke who sits Each night upon my knee, And hammers at his poor old dad, Is bound to conquer me.

He little knows that long ago, He forced the gates apart, And marched triumphantly into The city of my heart.

Some day perhaps, in years to come, When he is older grown, He, too, will be a.s.sailed as I, By youngsters of his own.

And when at last a little lad Gives battle on his knee, I know that he'll be captured, too, Just as he captured me.

My Land

My land is where the kind folks are, And where the friends are true, Where comrades brave will travel far Some kindly deed to do.

My land is where the smiles are bright And where the speech is sweet, And where men cling to what is right Regardless of defeat.

My land is where the starry flag Gleams brightly in the sun; The land of rugged mountain crag, The land where rivers run, Where cheeks are tanned and hearts are bold And women fair to see, And all is not a strife for gold-- That land is home to me.

My land is where the children play, And where the roses bloom, And where to break the peaceful day No flaming cannons boom.

My land's the land of honest toil, Of laughter, dance and song, Where harvests crown the fertile soil And thoughtful are the strong.

My land's the land of many creeds And tolerance for all It is the land of 'splendid deeds Where men are seldom small.

And though the world should bid me roam, Its distant scenes to see, My land would keep my heart at home And there I'd always be.

Daddies

I would rather be the daddy Of a romping, roguish crew, Of a bright-eyed chubby laddie And a little girl or two, Than the monarch of a nation In his high and lofty seat Taking empty adoration From the subjects at his feet.

I would rather own their kisses As at night to me they run, Than to be the king who misses All the simpler forms of fun.

When his dreary day is ending He is dismally alone, But when my sun is descending There are joys for me to own.

He may ride to horns and drumming; I must walk a quiet street, But when once they see me coming Then on joyous, flying feet They come racing to me madly And I catch them with a swing And I say it proudly, gladly, That I'm happier than a king.

You may talk of lofty places, You may boast of pomp and power, Men may turn their eager faces To the glory of an hour, But give me the humble station With its joys that long survive, For the daddies of the nation Are the happiest men alive.

Loafing

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